


Tango

by darkavenger



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons wants Grif to get off. They end up both getting off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tango

“Get the fuck off, Grif,” Simmons hisses, pushing uselessly at the fat fuck currently straddling him, “you’re crushing me!”

“Oh shut up, moron,” Griff mutters, keeping his voice low but not low enough for Simmons, who glances anxiously at the door, convinced that at any moment they’re going to be walked in on by Donut - or worse, Sarge. His face flushes a deeper shade of scarlet at the thought of being caught with his pants down - literally - and worse, with Grif. Pantless. Sarge would probably accuse him of consorting with the enemy, never mind that Grif was on their team. Simmons would have been better off sleeping with a Blue. And Donut - well, Donut would probably bake them a cake and bust out the banners to celebrate. Celebrate what, exactly, Simmons wasn’t sure. Grif was fat and scarred and his breath stank like cigarettes and whatever food he’d managed to find. He wasn’t a catch, that was for sure. But then, neither was Simmons, he was under no illusions there, with his cybernetic body parts and terminal nerdiness.

Grif bends down over him and interrupts Simmons’ thoughts by kissing him, insistently. Despite himself, Simmons responds, kissing back, his revulsion over Grif’s presumably lax dental hygiene temporarily overwhelmed by his hormones. It’s almost nice, for about two seconds, until Grif decides to move things along and slides his hand down into Simmons’ pants.

Simmons almost bites Grif’s lip off, a strangled sound escaping him.

“Ow,” Grif says, pulling away, dark eyes narrowed in annoyance, “okay, what the fuck is your problem?”

“Your hand is down my pants!” Simmons says, in a scandalised whisper, fingers digging into Grif’s mismatched shoulders.

“Ow,” Grif says again, wincing, then asks accusingly,“can you quit it with the vulcan death grip?”

“Oh,” Simmons realises his cybernetic fingers are probably clutching Grif with enough force to bruise, and hastily lets go. “Well, it’s your own fault for - for - inappropriate touching!”

“Inappropriate touching?” Grif asks, mouth twisting sardonically. “Gee I’m sorry I threatened your delicate womanly virtue, Simmons, I didn’t realise me giving you a handjob was going to be a problem.”

Simmons flushes, from a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and something else. “I just wasn’t expecting it,” he retorts, glaring.

“Oh wait,” Grif responds, rolling his eyes, “did i forget to put it on the itinerary? Well, if now’s a bad time we can always reschedule.” He moves as if to get off Simmons, and Simmons is almost surprised when he finds himself reaching out to stop him.

“Now’s fine,” Simmons mutters, avoiding Grif’s eyes. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Sure you wouldn’t rather be inventorying or whatever nerd stuff it is you normally do to get your kicks?” Grif asks, faux seriously.

“Oh, shut up,” Simmons says, leaning up on impulse to kiss Grif. As far as shutting him up goes, it’s less effective than feeding him but more effective than gagging. It also has the added bonus of being more fun than either of those two methods, though the gagging had its charm. They don’t break apart this time, kiss deepening. Grif is warm and heavy on him, their legs tangling and Simmons can feel Grif’s erection pressed against him, hot through the thin fabric of Grif’s boxers. Grif wraps a hand around Simmons’ own erection and Simmons briefly wonders if he should try and reciprocate, but then Grif starts to actually jerk him off and Simmons gasps, and clutches at Grif’s shoulders. He gives up on the idea of returning the favour right now in favour of spreading his legs a little wider and tilting his hips up needily. Grif lets go of him, and Simmon’s lets out a disappointed whine before he can stop himself. “Grif! This isn’t an activity you can quit halfway through to go take a nap!” he hisses, a little desperate.

“Oh, calm down,” Grif says, rolling his eyes and grinning a little, as he reaches down to tug Simmons’ boxers further down his legs, “I’m not going to fall asleep until immediately after I get to come.”

“You’re not going to shower?” Simmons asks, repulsed at the idea of going to sleep sticky and damp, but spreading his legs wider nonetheless.

Grif snorts, resuming the handjob, “You know I don’t believe in showering more than once a week. God invented babywipes for a reason, Simmons.”

“Gross,” Simmons says, though his tone of disapproval is ruined by the catch in his voice as Grif touches him.

Grif smirks, watching as Simmons pants and twitches, hips bucking up as the pleasure builds. He strains upwards, craving more contact, and he feels Grif’s own, neglected dick brush against his thigh. From the strained gasp Grif makes at that small contact, it’s obvious that he wants more, and Simmons obliges, pressing his thigh against Grif until the other soldier gets the idea and begins to thrust. Grif’s hand slows, his eyes hazy as he loses focus, and Simmons rolls his eyes, exasperated, and pulls Grif down. “C’mon, asshole,” he mutters, burying his face and a moan into Grif’s shoulder as he rocks his hips up, and their bodies connect. Grif moans too, unabashedly loud, and Simmons freezes for a second in horror, remembering their teammates.

“Grif,” Simmons hisses, “do you want to get caught?”

“Simmons,” Griff responds, drawing back a little to glare, “do you want to get off?”. It’s dark, the dim light making everything a little indistinct, so the glare is not particularly effective, but Grif’s argument for once makes total sense to Simmons. It must be all the blood rushing down that’s making his brain turn to mush, he tells himself, that’s the only explanation for this turn of events.

“Fine,” he snaps, arching up demandingly, “but if we get caught, I’m blaming this all on you!”

“You’re blaming this on me?” Grif says loudly,in incredulous shock. “How is this my fault? It takes two to tango, you know, Simmons.”

“This isn’t tangoing, this is - is - dryhumping!” Simmons snaps, flushing hotly, “And it’s your fault for seducing me!”

There’s a pause, where Simmons deeply regrets opening his mouth.

“Seducing you?” Grif asks, disbelieving, still holding himself up and away enough from Simmons that chilled air moves between their bodies, prickling flushed skin. “I literally said ‘hey, I’m getting sick of my own hand; you jerk me off if I jerk you off?’. Last time I checked? That’s not seduction!”

“Well you started it!” Simmons yells, frustrated. They both flinch at the unexpected volume, then listen, hearts pounding for footsteps, a knock on the door, discovery. It doesn’t come.

“Oh thank fuck,” Simmons whispers fervently, then yanks Grif down, kissing him viciously, noses knocking and teeth hitting.

“Ow,” Grif says in muffled protest, but shuts up as Simmons pulls him closer and shifts until their bodies align and then he’s distracted from Simmons’ questionable kissing technique by the feel of Simmons’ cock, sliding against his own as Simmons thrusts. Grif thrusts back,and they fall into a steady rhythm of desperate movement. Simmons’ hands are firm on Grif’s shoulder, pulling the other soldier tight against him, craving more friction, more of that heavy pleasure that pulses through him. The drag of skin against skin is almost too much, too dry even with the sweat and the precome to slick the way, but even that discomfort can’t stop the feeling building in Simmons.

He comes with a small sound he stifles against Grif’s mouth, shudders and then falls still, eyelids fluttering closed as he composes himself.

“Hey,” Grif’s voice intrudes on the happy warm feelings Simmons is currently enjoying, “don’t you dare fall asleep on me, asshole.”

Simmons reluctantly opens his eyes, squinting up at Grif, and retorts, “How come you’re the only one allowed to fall asleep immediately after we have sex?”

Grif answers promptly, “Because you always come about five seconds after we start, you giant virgin.”

“That insult doesn’t even make sense,” Simmons splutters, feeling his cheeks burn.

“Yeah, well I’m having some trouble thinking right now,” Grif says meaningfully, and Simmons eyes involuntarily flick down.

“You always have trouble thinking,” Simmons says, but he reaches an obliging hand down. Grif’s breath catches at the touch, his eyes going wide and almost shocked. It’s gratifying to know it’s because of him, that this is something he doesn’t totally suck at, that he can get Grif hard, get him off.

It makes him feel good, and generous enough that after Grif comes, collapsing in a heavy, sweaty heap on top of him Simmons doesn’t automatically shove him off, just wipes his hand on the floor with a grimace. They lie together for a minute, breath mingling, until Simmons feels his none-cyborg arm start to go dead.

“Grif,” he says softly, “I need to get up.”

There’s no response, just the quiet sound of Grif’s breathing. Simmons tilts his head back and sees that Grif’s eyes are shut.

“Oh for - _no one falls asleep that quickly!”_

The corner of Grif’s mouth quirks up in a smile, and his arms tighten around Simmons, who struggles feeblely for a while, before accepting the inevitable and sighing, letting his arms rest on Grif’s broad back. “Asshole,” he mutters softly.

 

 


End file.
